


Friends in Low Places

by Natasja



Series: Soldier's Heart Shorts [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26729830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natasja/pseuds/Natasja
Summary: One-shots and short fics inspired by Solder's Heart.In another life, Barrow and Branson barely spoke. In this lifetime, they still aren't friends, but some things are still important.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Original Male Character(s), Tom Branson/Sybil Crawley
Series: Soldier's Heart Shorts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945426
Comments: 12
Kudos: 94





	1. A dark and stormy night

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Soldier's Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947791) by [Alex51324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324). 



> I really, really wanted there to be more of the Soldier's Heart series, so I'm writing it.

A pounding on the door was the last thing Thomas Barrow, former RAMC Sargent and currently chauffer of Downton Abbey, wanted to deal with in the middle of the night.

He staggered downstairs anyway, opening the door to one of the last people he expected to see. Wet and bedraggled, his face pale and drawn, Tom Branson stood in the rain. What the bloody hell…? Thomas ushered him inside, throwing a dishcloth at his sort-of friend. “Dry off, before you catch a chill.”

Tom accepted the gesture in the spirit it was offered, towelling his face and hair as Peter made his own sleepy way downstairs. “Thomas? What’s going on?”

Halfway through putting the kettle on, Thomas shrugged. “We hadn’t got to that bit, yet, but I’d like to know meself.”

* * *

With Branson changed into a pair of Peter's spare pants and one of Thomas's shirts, ill-fitting but dry, the three men sat around the kitchen table, Mittens curled up on Thomas's lap.

Branson stared down into his teacup, and Thomas wondered if he should be keeping an eye out for symptoms of Shock. Whatever had Branson scurrying back to England in the middle of the night, it couldn't be good.

Finally, Branson flexed his fingers around the cup and started talking. “The paper had me doing an investigation on some of the more radical fringe groups. The ones that don’t just want independence, but revenge.”

Thomas knew the type. The ones you had to keep an eye on in the trenches, because they’d have killed a Jerry rather than take prisoners, even if the poor bugger had surrendered, or ‘accidentally’ forget to tend the prisoner’s wounds, until there was nothing to be done. “I take it you weren’t the only one investigating?”

Tom nodded, sipping his tea. “I went to a few meetings, listened to what they had to say, talked to a few. But it was all talk, no evidence of anything. Then one of then found me at the pub, where Sybil and I were having dinner before her shift at the hospital, and invited me to come with them on a trip.”

Peter and Thomas exchanged looks, before Thomas fetched the bottle of whiskey – the Wardmaster still sent him a bottle every so often – and three glasses out of the cupboard. “It’s not what they serve at the house, but it’s alcoholic. I feel like we’re going to need it.”

Tom poured them all a generous amount, picking up where he left off. “They attacked one of the English nobles. Burned their grand house down and ran them out of the county. It was all I could do to persuade them to let the family and staff out before they set the fires.”

Thomas swore, vividly. What a bloody mess! Peter leaned forward. “They did get out, though?”

Tom nodded again, staring into the whiskey glass without actually seeing it. “I got them all out and into their cars or on horses. Trouble is, they saw my face, and I’ve no doubt that one of the first things they do will be to report anyone they can identify.”

Bloody buggering fuck. “I don’t suppose the police will be too keen on checking what you were doing there, just that you were?”

They’d seen that happen before, with raids on Queer Bars. Men who were strangers in town, just having a drink, swept up in a raid and held on charges without ever having actually done anything against the law, presumed guilty because they were there.

Branson shook his head, “I told Sybil, as soon as she got home from her shift. She bought a ticket – said an English girl wanting to go home was less suspicious - and sent me straight on.”

Thomas shot upright in his chair. “You didn’t bring her with you?”

The 47th Ambulence had been for RAMC and soldiers, mostly, but Corporal Jessop and Captain Allenby had treated a few local girls off the books. The ones who didn’t feel safe going to the hospital, because they spoke with a certain accent, or had German names, just as Lisel had specified to more than one person that she was Swiss, not German. A gently-bred English Lady, even if Nurse Crawley - Nurse Branson - was a lot more down-to-earth than most, needed more than an accent to keep her safe when the law was looking for someone to blame.

But Branson looked wretched at the thought, too. “None of the extremists knew about her, and Sybil wears her ring on a chain when she’s on shift. Besides…”

He hesitated, looking more apprehensive than before. Thomas sighed. “Out with it. You’re not going to shock us.”

Branson grimaced, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “The midwives say that the pregnancy is going well, but Sybil herself might be high risk. They advised against travel, and for Sybil to take as much time off work as she could get. I’d already arranged for my sisters to help, and we had enough put by, but…”

Peter nodded, reaching over to pat Branson’s hand. “Sensible of you both. Look, sleep in the spare room for what’s left of tonight, and tomorrow we’ll go down and see if we can’t send a telegram to find out what’s going on. Or Sybil will have sent one here, to let you know she's coming.”

The Family certainly wouldn't complain if Thomas suggested driving to pick her up, rather than making Lady Sybil catch any number of trains and then walk. It might be worth asking Dr Clarkson to try and get hold of her medical records, too, if there was something to worry about.


	2. Chapter Two

By the time the sun was up, Branson was already pacing the small cottage in agitation. Peter gave Thomas a resigned look and dragged Branson off to assist with breakfast while Thomas walked down to the telegraph office in the village.

Thomas felt a bit bad for abandoning Peter, but Peter had always been the better of them at dealing with other people’s anxieties.

* * *

Nurse Crawley, as Thomas was thinking of her for the duration of the crisis, had sent a telegram, and thankfully had the sense not to send it to the House, or call them. The last thing any of them needed was Lord Grantham asking questions before they could get their own side out.

Thomas didn’t dawdle on the way back, though he did detour by the servant’s hall to arrange to take his half-day that afternoon. He declined the offer of tea, with the excuse that Peter was trying his hand this morning, and hurried back to the cottage.

Peter had thrown together something, likely as a way to get Branson to stop dithering around, and they both relaxed a little when Thomas opened the door, holding up the telegram. Thomas leaned his head briefly against Peter’s while Branson read of Nurse Crawley’s safe arrival on this side of the Channel. “Thank God. But what can we do now?”

Right, plotting. Thomas felt on much firmer ground, now. “First, I already sent a telegram back, telling Lady Sybil to wait where she is. I’ll be driving Lady Edith to the station after breakfast; she’s going up to London to see that Editor fellow who's been publishing her opinion letters. She won't be back until this evening, so I’m free after that.”

Branson relaxed a little, too, now that they had the beginnings of a plan. “What do you need me to do?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to go via the forest and meet me after I drop off Lady Edith. Then we are going to drive to Holyhead, give Nurse Crawley a quick check-over for anything that might require intervention. If not, we’ll bring her back here, so she doesn’t have to deal with being jolted about on a train.”

Branson’s eyebrow rose. “You know about pregnancies? Never mind that, what if there is a problem.”

Thomas shrugged. “Enough to tell if something’s drastically wrong, and the early signs. I read up on it when Ethel got herself in trouble,”

 _‘Just in case the next housemaid was equally foolish and needed a warning to get out with a good reference before it became obvious,’_ he didn’t say. “If something is wrong, we've got an old army pal, Rouse, just finished medical school and working under a local doctor. He'll be discreet, if we need help."

Branson relaxed a little, and Thomas continued laying out the plan, "Peter, I need you to stay here and ward off any inquiries. Say I only said something about a surprise gift for our anniversary, if you have to.”

Carson having a heart attack would certainly provide a suitable distraction, if it came to that. Peter only smiled, and Thomas couldn’t love him more. “I’m sure I can think of something non-scandalous enough to tell them about.”

* * *

Against all of Thomas’s expectations, their clandestine trip went smoothly.

Nurse Crawley was feeling fatigued, and craving some very strange food items – Thomas ran to a nearby shop and got what he could, since the journals he’d read said that cravings should be indulged where possible – but she assured him that was normal. She hadn’t been stopped or questioned, and she’d taken an hour to spread the truth of the matter to the rest of the Bransons and the neighbours, in case anyone came asking. Whether or not that would do any good was up for debate, but it was clever to think of.

Thomas was even more careful than he usually was driving back to York and Downton, as they carefully worked out their cover story. It was mostly true, but downplayed a few things, and highlighted others. Finally arriving at the village, Thomas stopped at the cottage hospital. “Right. I’ve got to return the motor before anyone starts wondering why I’m not back from my half-day yet. Especially if they want me to collet Mrs Crawley and the Dowager for dinner tonight.”

Mrs Crawley was coming for dinner, which meant that she had only been at the hospital for the morning shift. That gave them a bit more time. “You two stay here and get Dr Clarkson to look Nurse Craw – Nurse Branson over. I’ll go up to the house and lay the groundwork so they aren’t taken completely by surprise.”

Lady Sybil smiled and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Sargent. We do appreciate it.”

Thomas gave her an arch look. “Remember that when your sisters start complaining about not having the chauffer around this afternoon.”

* * *

Finding Lord Grantham wasn’t hard, but Thomas chose to bring Lady Grantham in on it as well.

If his Lordship did hit the roof, Thomas wanted someone nearby who could calm him down. Besides, Lady Grantham had a tendency toward thinking of her daughters as more delicate than they were, all to the better in situations like this. If Thomas had to play on motherly feelings to get out of this unscathed, he would cheerfully do so.

He didn’t quite stand to attention, but made sure that his posture was appropriately deferential. “I’m sorry for not bringing the motor back immediately, my lord. I’d meant to, but I stopped by the post office, and there was an urgent telegram.”

Lord and Lady Grantham liked to think themselves especially solicitous of their staff, and compared to some places, they were. Lady Grantham instantly looked concerned, “Goodness, is everything all right, Barrow?”

Thomas inclined his head, “Yes, my Lady. Well, it is now, at least. The telegram was from Lady Sybil.”

Neither of them found that reassuring, and Thomas hurried on. “It seems there’s been some unrest over there, and Branson was investigating something for the Paper when he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He tried to help, but the authorities that showed up got the wrong idea.”

That didn’t do much to set them at ease, either. “Has Branson been arrested, or something?”

For once, he’d used his head and avoided that kind of trouble. “No, my Lord, but I gather that British citizens suspected of being radicalised are treated even more harshly than suspected rebels, and the army has been… putting pressure on the natives, using their families. Branson thought it best to get Lady Sybil out of their immediate reach.”

That was true, as well, though Thomas had heard it from an expletive-filled letter from the Wardmaster, who needed someone not currently in the army to vent to, rather than from Branson or Sybil. “If you’ll excuse the indelicacy, I gather that Lady Sybil’s pregnancy has been difficult, and Branson hoped I’d have an alternative to her being bumped and jostled on an over-crowded train. I took my half-day and went to fetch them in person.”

Lady Grantham relaxed immediately, and his Lordship looked a little less likely to shout at someone. “Thank you, Barrow. Are they here now?”

Thomas shook his head. “Branson asked if I could take them to the hospital, so a doctor properly-trained in… that sort of thing… could look Lady Sybil over. They thought they might be there a while, so I offered to come back and tell you what was happening.”

Lord Grantham frowned, “I’m surprised that they didn’t call here, instead.”

Thomas half-shrugged. “I’m not certain that they had access to a telephone, my Lord. Lady Sybil knows how busy this time of year is, and probably wasn’t sure if you’d be available.”

Thomas certainly knew how busy things were around this time, if Lady Sybil didn’t. Preparing for the harvest, Lord Grantham was out with the land agent most days, organising repairs and making sure the tenants had what they needed for the season, and Lady Grantham was occupied with the burst of charity work that came up at the same time.

Lord Grantham relaxed a little. “Well, I can’t fault you for helping a member of the family, but I’d appreciate if you could tell us in advance next time. I suppose we can get the rest of the story from the two of them when they arrive.”

 _Thank God_. Thomas was careful not to look too relieved. “If you like, my Lord, I can ask Mrs Hughes to have Lady Sybil’s room made up, then go back and drive them up from the hospital.”

Lady Grantham waved a hand. “I’d best handle that; I shall need to speak with Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore about the accommodations for a pregnant woman, anyway. You must be tired, driving so far… why not go have a cup of tea before you bring them home?”

Tea, and a few minutes with Peter, sounded wonderful. “Thank you, my Lady.” He hesitated a moment, “I have their luggage in the motor, as well, but…”

Thankfully, Lord Grantham understood. “I’ll have one of the footmen come out and unload it.”

* * *

Peter was waiting with a cup of tea and a warm, one-armed hug.

Thomas collapsed into a chair at the table. “Well, at least if anyone calls here asking questions, they’ll be more inclined to step in on Branson’s behalf.”

Peter bit his lip. “Do you think that anyone will?”

Thomas wished he knew; he hated uncertainties. “Depends how fast they figure out who Branson is. I doubt they went around broadcasting exactly who Nurse Cr-Branson is related to, but if they really think he’s involved, they might put in the extra effort.”

Peter shook his head. “Well, they’re here now, at least, and that’s to the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I'm switching events around a little.   
> Partly so I had a plausible reason for Thomas to be able to make the trip from Yorkshire to Holyhead, and also because I think Edith and Michael deserved more time together. So, Edith gets back up on her feet a little quicker after having been left at the alter, and she accepts the offer to write earlier, over her family's objections.  
> (because she's angry and lonely and looking for something that's hers...)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sybil has concerns, and would like to talk to someone both sneaky and sensible.

Despite his leading role in the fiasco, Thomas was not considered important enough to find out how the Bransons’ flight from Ireland had been resolved. Carson wasn’t saying anything, merely radiating disapproval at anyone who dared so much as hint at it. Still, no-one showed up to arrest Branson, so it couldn’t have been too bad.

A day or two later, they finally made their way down to the garage and the cottage. Peter took one look at Lady Sybil’s drawn face and invited them in for a quick cup of tea. Thomas gestured for permission, waiting just long enough for her to grant it before he felt her pulse (slightly elevated and hard to determine past the swelling of her wrists). The way she clutched her temples when the teapot whistled loudly wasn’t reassuring, either.

Thomas didn’t know as much as he would like about the specifics of what could go wrong in pregnancies, though he had written to Rouse for a summary. Even so, he was sure that Lady Sybil shouldn’t have gained quite so much weight, and that such symptoms should have faded in the second or third trimester. “How are you feeling, Nurse Crawley?”

Lady Sybil sighed, cradling her head. “Not especially well. Mama keeps assuring me that it’s normal to be tired, and that every pregnancy is different, but I’m sure it can’t be usual for me to be so scatterbrained, or to still be so nauseous, and I don’t know why everyone insists that they were… using the water closet every few minutes at this stage.”

Thomas frowned, “I’m hardly an expert, but no, I don’t believe that’s normal. I’m not due for anything until I pick up Mrs Crawley and the Dowager; would you like me to take you down to Dr Clarkson?”

The Bransons exchanged looks before nodding decisively. “It can’t hurt to be sure, and he did say to come or call if we had any concerns. We mostly came down to thank you again and ask you a question, though.”

Peter handed her a cup of tea. “Would you like me to find something else to do while you ask it?”

Lady Sybil shook her head. “No, stay. It does concern you too, in a way.”

That was intriguing. “Go ahead, then.”

She nudged Branson, who met Thomas’s eyes directly. “We’ve discussed it, and we want you to be our baby’s Godfather.”

It was a good thing that Thomas hadn’t been drinking anything, or he would have spluttered it across the table. “Me? I’m flattered, but wouldn’t you prefer a family member?”

Lady Sybil shook her head. “I considered asking Edith, but she’s in the same boat as Mary: too removed from the life we’ll be living. Tom is going to ask his sister, Aislinn, to be Godmother. Cousin Matthew is our back-up if you say no, but we want you to be Godfather.”

For a moment, Thomas wondered if Branson was merely humouring his wife, but a glance at him confirmed otherwise. “You’ve dealt with the worst the world can throw at you and come out the other side. I considered my brother, Kieran, but he’s not really the responsible, nurturing type.”

Thomas tried to covey his disbelief that anyone would consider him nurturing through a raised eyebrow. Nurse Crawley beamed. “I saw how you looked after your men as Wardmaster, no matter how difficult Carson made it, and tried to help Ethel even though she’d been little but an ongoing nuisance. You just pretend not to care. Will you do it, Sargent Barrow?”

Back when he thought Peter had been killed in action, when Alice asked if he could have raised his lover’s bastard, Thomas had known that he would have cared for any natural child that Peter might have produced, just to have a part of him back. He didn’t feel remotely the same about Nurse Crawley or Branson as he did about Peter, but wasn’t it the same principle.

He glanced at Peter, who was doing a terrible job of hiding just how pleased he was at the idea. Well, no child of Lady Sybil could be so very dreadful, and it was the closest to a child of their own that he and Peter would ever get. “I will. But you’re responsible for telling your family that.”

* * *

Lady Sybil was whisked inside as soon as they arrived, leaving Tom and Thomas in the waiting room. They sat in awkward silence for a while, before Branson spoke. “You’ve worked in a lot of London houses, right?”

Oh, God, don’t let Branson want advice on how to fit in better with the Crawleys. Thomas eyed him warily. “A few, and had friends in more.”

Branson nodded. “Lord Grantham has been making noises about sending for Sir Phillip Tapsel, some posh bloke who caters to the upper classes. Have you heard anything about him?”

Thomas could do better than that, having been pressed into service as the man’s temporary Valet during his time working for Lady B, who had engaged is services. “He’s good at what he does when a pregnancy goes smoothly, but he’s even better at telling anxious, well-paying families of the patient what they want to hear, and he really gets his back up when someone voices a dissenting opinion.”

Lady B’s daughter had suffered a breech birth, according to downstairs hearsay, and nearly died because Sir Phillip only acted when one of his nursed had been bribed to check and discovered that the baby was positioned wrong. Lady B’s daughter had been bedridden for weeks after, much longer than she should have been. Lady B’s son had spent more time crying on Thomas’s shoulder than screwing him, during those weeks.

Branson nodded, taking him seriously. “I don’t suppose you have suggestions of how to deal with The Family if they insist?”

Mr Barrow hadn’t wanted to waste money they didn’t have, and put off having Thomas’s mother examined until the cancer had progressed too far. “You’re her husband, Branson. His Lordship may not like it, but in absence of Lady Sybil’s ability to give consent, or even putting your foot down about treatment, you’re the final authority, not him.”

Nurse Crawley’s husband nodded thoughtfully. “You’d know more about this than me. What do you think?”

Thomas really hoped that this never got back to the Crawleys. Losing his job would barely be the half of it. “I think that Dr Clarkson has far more experience with expectant mothers who haven’t spent their entire pregnancy being waited on, and with emergency situations. He’s also looked after Lady Sybil since she was a baby.”

They were interrupted by Dr Clarkson poking his head in. “Mr Branson, if you would join us.”

Thomas prepared to sit back and be bored for a while, but Branson touched his shoulder. “You can come too, if only because you’ll have a better idea of what he’s talking about.”

Dr Clarkson did look unusually serious, and if Thomas was sent back to inform the Family that Lady Sybil was spending the night, he’d better be able to explain himself. “All right.”

* * *

Sybil also looked rather relieved to see him, which halted Dr Clarkson’s potential protests. “Well, you may as well explain things so I don’t have the entire Crawley family descend on me in a panic. Lady Sybil is suffering from pre-Eclampsia, which can be extremely serious if the mother goes to full delivery and natural labour.”

Branson turned white. Thomas put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “What are the options, and which do you recommend?”

Nurse Crawley gave him a grateful look. Dr Clarkson nodded slightly. “Inducing early labour has been proven effective in preventing Maternal mortality, by caesarean if possible. Lady Sybil will only be a few weeks early, so the risk to the child is minimal, but I do not exaggerate when I say that it may save her life.”

Nurse Crawley relaxed a little at having a way forward. “What are the risks of having a caesarean?”

Dr Clarkson inclined his head. “It may be harder for you to conceive again, and a having a natural birth in future pregnancies may be harder. However, it is less of a risk than putting your body through the stress of natural labour and risking a prematurely detatched placenta or sepsis.”

Branson and Nurse Crawley exchanged looks, before nodding. Sybil took a deep breath. “If you could give me a few moments with pen and paper, while you prep the theatre, I’d appreciate it. Sargent Barrow, if you could drive back to the house slowly, I’d rather my family arrive too late to stop us.”

Sneaky girl; Thomas heartily approved. Dr Clarkson nodded. “I realise that this is highly irregular, Barrow, but my assistant is on an errand. If you remember how to prep for a surgery, I’d appreciate the help, especially if time is a consideration.”

Thomas remembered, and it would give Branson and Sybil a chance to say whatever they needed to.

* * *

Even driving as slowly as he could get away with, the drive back to the Abbey seemed to take no time at all. He didn’t bother to put the car away, or even stick his head in to tell Peter what was going on. Instead, Thomas headed straight for the Servant’s Hall and Carson’s office.

That, in and of itself, should be considered an indication of how serious things were.

Carson glowered, Thomas having interrupted what looked like a personal conversation with Mrs Hughes, but Thomas didn’t let him get a word out. “Lady Sybil wanted to talk to Dr Clarkson about some concerns she had. He said that it’s serious, and I need to let the Family know immediately.”

Mrs Hughes shot to her feet. “We just sent the maids up with tea. I’ll go get them.”

Thankfully, Carson didn’t argue, though he did go a few shades paler. Thomas nodded, “If you don’t mind, I’ll come too. Dr Clarkson told me the basics, so someone would be able to explain what was happening.”

* * *

The Family took it… about as well as Thomas expected.

At least Lady Grantham didn’t waste time squawking about it. “Mother said that one of my aunts suffered that, and died from it.”

Thomas didn’t need to ask what her biggest concern was. “Dr Clarkson is optimistic, My Lady, but said that the longer they waited, the riskier it would be. Branson and Lady Sybil discussed it, and decided to go ahead with the procedure. They sent me back to tell you.”

Lord Grantham looked ready to raise a fuss, but thought better of it. “We’ll be down as soon as possible, if you could have the car ready.”

Thomas bowed slightly, “Of course, My Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!
> 
> As you can see, I reject Canon and substitute my own reality.  
> With Tom Branson's position far less precarious, he's more confident at standing up to his in-laws.
> 
> Next Chapter, we see the return of some old, favourite characters...


	4. Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas gets an expected visit from his new god-daughter, and an unexpected visit from old friends.

Lady Sybil had delivered a healthy baby girl, and been sentenced to strict bedrest, Mrs Crawley having all but moved into Downton to look after her.

Branson had barely let baby Moira out of his arms the first few days, when she wasn’t being fed. (the new Footmen had a bet whether if the name was to placate Lady Mary, or a nod to the meaning ‘rebelliousness’ or ‘wished-for child’. Thomas didn’t bother to enlighten them that it was Lady Sybil’s idea of a joke, a play on the meaning of her own name, by referencing the Greek Fates.)

Now, however, he’d teamed up with Mr Matthew to drag Downton into modernisation, and agreed to be the new Land Agent, after the old one quit in outrage. Thus, Thomas and Peter had custody for a few hours, while Mrs Crawley decided if Sybil was allowed off bedrest yet, and Branson did the rounds of the estate and fetched his sister from the Station. He’d said something about using the walk to give her the run-down of how to deal with English nobility, at least until they got through the Christening.

Little Moira was easy to entertain, at least. All Thomas needed to do was sit in the armchair and hum while rocking her. Peter could hold her, too, as long as he was sitting down and Thomas placed her carefully so Peter could support the tiny head properly.

Then he went to answer the knock on the door, and felt his jaw drop.

* * *

The Wardmaster smirked at his shock, clapping him on the shoulder. “We had some leave, Jessop and I, and we got your letter about being named Godfather.”

That letter had been sent? Thomas had been belatedly panicking and wrote it all down to he could argue himself into it, but then put it aside to throw into the fire! Well, he couldn’t complain about the result. Thomas pulled himself together, waving them inside. “Well, you’re very welcome, but I should warn you that there are tiny ears nearby.”

Jessop gravitated right to Peter and Moira, cooing over her. “Well, she’s a fine little lass, isn’t she?”

Moira waved her arms excitedly, a recent development, and the Wardmaster tried not to laugh. “Eager little thing, isn’t she. How’s the mother, your Nurse Crawley?”

Thomas put the kettle on, and fetched the bottle of Argamanc, thankful that there was only a little left. “On bed-rest, but hopeful of being released later today. Branson’s the new Land Agent, so we got Moira for a few hours.”

The Wardmaster nodded, “How are you holding up, Barrow? Pre-eclampsia’s not an easy thing, even when it’s just a random stranger.”

Thomas let out a breath of air, letting the weight he’d been carrying lift off of his shoulders. Everyone had said not to dwell on it, now that mother and baby had come through safe, but Thomas had been frantic at the thought of how close he’d come to losing another friend. “If Dr Clarkson had bowed to House pressure, I’d have tried to convince Branson to spirit Sybil to you, in the hopes you could find someone able to do the job.”

The Wardmaster shrugged, “Young Allenby keeps in contact, sometimes, and he knows at least as much as your fu-“ he glanced quickly at Moira, and censored himself “effing village doctor. We get to deal with Officer’s wives, when we’re deployed somewhere, so it wouldn’t be the first pregnancy I’ve dealt with.”

It was well past the point of that being necessary, but Thomas couldn’t help the relief that flooded him. “Thank you, Wardmaster.”

Wardmaster Tully smiled fondly. “You’re our lad, Barrow. Closest Jessop and I have to a son of our own. You can always ask us.”

Then Moira started fussing, and nothing would do but that Thomas take her back into his arms and start humming. Which was, of course, the scene that Branson and Sybil – who was insisting on first names now that Thomas was her daughter’s godfather – walked in on.

* * *

Sybil put the clues together fastest, and smiled brightly. “Oh, you must be the Wardmaster Thomas – Sargent Barrow, I suppose – was always talking about! I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Sargent Tully inclined his head, and pulled out a chair. “I am that, and you might be out of danger, but that doesn’t mean cleared for strenuous activity.”

Sybil gave Thomas a merry, conspiratorial look, and took the offered seat without complaint. At some point after her marriage, Sybil had heard from Harriet Ffortescue, the VAD nurse from the port hospital, and somehow got the details of Thomas’s stay there. “Thank you, Master-Sargent. I met up with Tom and Cousin Matthew on my way here, and they suggested resting for a spell before we went back to the House. I hope Moira hasn’t been too much trouble.”

Thomas bounced his god-daughter a little, still humming a half-remembered lullaby, and Peter smiled fondly. “Oh, she’s been a little angel. Thomas is just getting used to the idea that children adore him.”

Jessop laughed, and the Wardmaster shot Thomas what might have been a quietly proud look, which was when Mr Matthew and Lord Grantham stepped in, doubtless having been doing the rounds with Branson. Thomas hoped that he was the only one who’d spotted Mr Matthew’s abrupt stop in the doorway when he recognised the visitors and flashed back to their first meeting. “Sargent Tully, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

The Wardmaster nodded a greeting, and Jessop took his turn explaining. “Barrow wrote us about being named Godfather, and Corporal Jessop and I had some leave, so we thought it would be a good excuse to visit.”

Lord Grantham cleared his throat. “Well, I hope you’ll stay for tea. Thomas did an extraordinary job as Wardmaster for the convalescent home, I’d be glad to meet the man who mentored him.”

Jessop and the Wardmaster exchanged glances, before Tully nodded. “That’s kind of you to offer. What time do you usually take it?”

Pleasantries were exchanged for a few more minutes, before those from the Big House departed, Moira with them. Branson continued on to fetch his sister, and the others to make sure that Sybil actually went and rested.

That gave Thomas the privacy to be frank. “I’m still surprised you came all this way just for a visit.”

The Wardmaster barked another laugh. “Well, it was one reason. The other is that we’ve been scouting out where to retire to.”

Thomas blinked, but then admitted to himself that he shouldn’t be surprised. The Wardmaster must have been nearing retirement when the Great War broke out, and while the RAMC had a little more leeway than the regular army in that regard, Jessop and Tully couldn’t stay enlisted forever. Jessop hid a grin behind his teacup. “Aye, lad, it’s no’ an unusual reaction. We’ll get a pension, and there’s new houses springing up all over. Might as well spend our twilight years somewhere nice.”

It would be nice to have something akin to family close by. “They’re looking at building some new housing near the village, just holding out to find an architect who can incorporate it into what’s already there. You could talk to Branson and Mr Matthew about it over tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wardmaster in 1915 is described as being 'of Lord Grantham's vintage', so late 50s-early 60s. I don't know the exact age that RAMC enlisted would have been expected to retire, but Tully wouldn't have been far off, by this point, and with all of the post-war new housing springing up (the aftermath of the Great War resulted in a lot of migration and refugees), this would be a good time for them to go searching.  
> I headcanon that Jessop and the Wardmaster don't have a lot of other family, so while they're also considering Devonshire as Jessop's birthplace, they won't mind the excuse to be close to their psuedo-son and his not-husband, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, things are going to be a little different than Canon. Enjoy!


End file.
